Acolytes of Cthulhu

MISTS OF DEATH

BY RICHARD F. SEARIGHT & FRANKLYN SEARIGHT

PneephTaal waited.

Patiently.

For over four billion years PneephTaal had patiently waited, biding its time. It knew that one day, conceivably five or ten or fifteen million years or more in the future, its opportunity would come.

It would wait. It would be ready.

PneephTaal had come to earth while the youthful planet was still recovering from the titanic shock of cosmic birth, and since that time its sentient awareness had not dimmed. Although sealed within a cavernous rock-hewn vault by the authority of the Elder Gods—a force which even it could not overthrow—its life essence existed in a dormant state fired by an alien intellect which could never accept its own conquest. When it first had arrived, the planet had barely begun its primordial existence, being little more than some 500 million years old, still a fiery mass of unsolidified, molten rock.

Billions and many more millions of years passed as the land cooled and the atmosphere evolved to a state wherein life, shocked into nativity by a majestic flash uniting certain elementary molecular particles, could be sustained. And when this new life demonstrated its uniqueness by splitting into equal and identical units, PneephTaal regarded the embryonic creations with disinterest.

It paid little heed to the evolving, many-celled animals that swam in the salty seas and eventually developed a primitive intelligence; it sensed with total indifference the mutating life forms that later ventured forth to conquer the land. Nor was PneephTaal bored with its captive existence for its perceptive faculty was able to span the vastness of interstellar space probing the secrets of distant galaxies and individual star systems, invading in thought the inhabitants of a nearly endless array of tenanted planets that held even the tiniest shred of interest for it. There was little in the entire cosmos it did not know—except how to escape its bondage imposed by the Elder Gods. Millions upon millions of years continued to elapse and gigantic reptiles thundered over the earth, dimwitted creatures whose lives were spent in satisfying their never-ending need for sustenance to feed their ever-empty stomaches.

PneephTaal knew how they felt.

It waited, as man first began to tread the earth. And it brooded, as civilizations leaped to flaming heights, then perished. And it hungered with a craving that could have devoured galaxies! It thought of what it would do when once again it regained the freedom it once had known, when again it could feast throughout the star-flecked universe.

Paraphrased from the Eltdown Shards

With shocking suddenness, this sentient entity—mighty, seemingly indestructible, quasi-immortal—was aware of an amazing truth which momentarily stunned its intellect with a blinding flare. It was no longer imprisoned!

ALAN HASRAD, REPORTER FOR THE ARKHAM DAILY NEWS, sat in his book-lined study reading the afternoon mail. He rubbed thoughtfully at his large nose and pondered the curious letter from B. C. Fletcher he had just finished reading for the second time.

An indefinably sinister undertone ran through it, although the nature of the menace at which Fletcher hinted was not disclosed, and Alan was left with the haunting impression of some unnamed but very real evil affecting the writer. A genuine dread—not terror, for the man wrote with perfect calmness—seemed to raise a spectral head from behind his apparently casual words.

Fletcher was a complete stranger to Alan. He wrote in a rapid, scholarly script with diction and construction suggesting a man of more than average attainment. The letter explained how he had read of different arcane exploits in which Alan had been involved, events savoring of the fantastic and bizarre, and for this reason, along with Alan’s standing as a respected journalist, regarded him as a possible source of help in the problem confronting him. He mentioned briefly that he had retired nearly a year ago to a small and semi-isolated cottage on Shadow Lake near Bramwell, a region of Massachusetts with which Alan had some familiarity. His next paragraphs spoke with ambiguous restraint about an inexplicable phenomenon which was causing the neighboring countryside great alarm, but suggested it would be inadvisable to attempt details by mail, believing an interesting and convincing demonstration would be witnessed by Alan if he would come in person.

The letter was an odd mixture of old-fashioned formality coupled with an obvious bewilderment and deep-seated uneasiness, which doubtless combined to produce the impression of dread on the part of the writer. He concluded with a rather formal invitation to visit him, with full directions for reaching his cottage near the lake should Alan drive and a promise to meet him if he came by train.

Scrawled beneath the closing was the flourishing signature of B. C. Fletcher.

Ordinarily, such a letter would have evoked little enthusiasm in Alan. As a journalist and minor participant in certain unusual phenomena which tended to escape the notice of most, he had grown accustomed to receiving all sorts of communications from cultured cranks, and had come to pay little attention to most of them. But this was different from the usual run of such letters. Its sincerity was undeniable and the sanity of the writer did not seem to be in question.

He reflected about Shadow Lake and the nearby town of Bramwell. Alan had several relatives living in the area, whom he visited from time to time, and was casually acquainted with some of the local town folks. Come to think of it, he considered, hadn’t there been recent mention of that locality in the papers? Something to do with a killing which had some very interesting features? Alan seemed to think this was the case and spent the next few minutes examining back issues of the Arkham Daily News before locating the account he had recalled.

Slowly, with much more care than he had given to his first hasty perusal a week ago, he reread the article. It told of the death of Moss Kent, a farmer who had lived out on the Somersville Road a half mile east of Shadow Lake. Kent had been an old bachelor and hadn’t been missed till one of his neighbors found him sprawled in the yard before his unpainted shack.

There was more, but no further information of practical importance was offered other than the notion that unnatural features were still being investigated by the authorities. It was a curious article, thought Alan, not because of what had been stated, but because of the provocative nature of that which had been left unsaid.

Alan debated the advisability of snatching a day or two to investigate. What finally decided him against it was the fact that Fletcher had declined to even suggest the nature of his trouble, and Alan felt slightly piqued to be called upon in such a manner. He wrote briefly, saying he was interested but busy and invited Fletcher to come to Arkham to discuss the matter or else write full details.

Fletcher’s second letter arrived five days later. In part it read:

I cannot blame you for not wishing to come to Bramwell without full information. However, I have few tangible facts to offer you. It was with the thought that if you accepted my invitation you would see and perhaps understand and explain these terribly unnatural happenings…

Even as I write, the Mists are rising again from the swamp in back of my cottage. Each night between dusk and darkness I see the same sight as I sit at my library window, and it is not a pleasant one. More and more it suggests to me the steady, purposeful advance of an army. First comes the vanguard, stray scouts swirling and spiralling upwards from the dank marsh nearby, to feel the way for the dense murky phalanxes that follow. The advance does not take long. Soon the main body closes in, and my little cottage on its knoll between the swamp and the lake is besieged by the chill, writhing dampness which blots out the dim lights of Bramwell beyond the marsh like a stone wall.

Mr. Hasrad, the mist is sentient! Oh, I know how it sounds, but I’m not crazy; I know I’m not having hallucinations. Do you wonder that I hated to write this? Why my first letter was intentionally so vague? I wanted you to see for yourself—to look at these vast banks of lazily twisting vapor, slowly writhing and turning in chill, unnatural convolutions, encircling my dwelling with a living wall of frightfulness. Then you would understand and be convinced. When on a windless night you heard the timbers of the cottage creak and give beneath a hideous, external constriction, you would know! And if you sat through the long hours till dawn and watched their sullen retreat before the anemic rays of the pale watery sun…

The mists are all I claim them to be, Mr. Hasrad, and more. They are evil, and threaten mankind with a danger perhaps unequalled in the history of his evolution! About three weeks ago the farmers began finding their stock killed in a most peculiar manner, which I attribute to the mists, and two weeks ago it took the life of an old farmer—at least I’m nearly positive it was responsible, although I couldn’t prove it in a court of law. The nature of these attacks I prefer not to describe on paper lest you put me down as a mildly interesting lunatic and suggest I seek psychiatric help. But join me here at Shadow Lake, and I will give you full details.

This letter was signed: “Bayard C. Fletcher”.

Alan’s eyes moved to the nearby bookshelves in his study after he read the signature, strayed and paused on a tall volume in red leather bearing the gilt words along its spine: Before the Stone Age—Bayard C. Fletcher. The writer of this letter was more than likely the very same Bayard C. Fletcher, a renowned paleontologist and author of sundry technical works of which Before the Stone Age was the last and most exhaustive and regarded by his colleagues as a rare contribution to the progress of their science.

Alan felt his doubts as to the sanity of the writer dissolve as salt does in water. If this were indeed the Bayard Fletcher, it might well be that something strange was haunting the vicinity of Shadow Lake. Alan knew Fletcher by reputation to be a man along in years, possibly sixty-seven or -eight, but certainly not far beyond the prime of his mental faculties. As Alan recalled, he had only recently retired from his Miskatonic University curatorship to gain more time for writing and private research. Known as a quiet man, with little social contact among other scientists, Fletcher had only recently dropped from sight completely. Probably only his publishers, intimate friends, and museum officials knew of his whereabouts.

Mists that were sentient? Alive? Capable of intelligent action, perhaps? A vague suspicion began to stir in Alan’s mind, prompted by shuddering passages he recalled from midnight readings of the Necronomicon. But, no; the thought crossing his mind was unworthy of further consideration as it simply could not be possible.

Originating from almost any other man than the reserved, levelheaded old scientist, the thought of sentient mists would have been too preposterous for comment. And even so, Alan certainly did not believe for one moment that Fletcher’s flamboyant assertion was correct. He merely paid Fletcher’s genius the tribute of assuming that he had stumbled onto something decidedly abnormal and markedly outside and beyond the ordinary. And, in his lonely isolated quarters, the manifestation had probably gripped his mind and prayed upon his imagination until he had come to unreservedly admit to an impossible condition. But Fletcher still needed help; and, if a visit from Alan would cheer and reassure him and perhaps find an obvious, easily overlooked explanation for these unnatural happenings, he decided he could do no less than go.

Alan prepared to leave, with the grudging approval of his editor, for Shadow Lake the following afternoon.

The drive from Arkham, that festering, witch-cursed community squatting along the Atlantic, led southeast to Bramwell and was one he had always enjoyed. Something in his own restless nature responded to the wild primitive call of old, nearly impenetrable forests that stood sentinel along his route, barren meadowlands stripped of their harvests that undulated into the distance, stone fences falling into disrepair, and dilapidated farms and barns that tottered and rotted on the brink of irrestorable decay. Alan marveled at the hills and woods arrayed in their autumn colors of assorted golds and oranges and crimsons.

The slanting rays of a late afternoon sun were throwing shadows across the main street of Bramwell as Alan came to a stop at its single traffic light. He turned his car to the right, crossed the railroad tracks, and drove to the pumps of the town’s only filling station. A sign above the door indicated the owner of this establishment to be Harold Webber, a round-faced middle-aged man whom Alan had met before.

Out of the gas station, with leisurely strides, stepped the proprietor. As he approached the car, wiping his hands on torn and grease-smeared overalls, he recognized its driver; he squinted and the grim line of his mouth curved in the suggestion of a smile.

“Afternoon. Mr. Hasrad, ain’t it?”

Alan nodded. “How you been, Hal? Fill it up, please.”

Harold retreated to the pumps. Inserting the nozzle into the gas tank and setting it to automatic, he ambled over to where Alan waited with window still rolled down.

“Haven’t seen you in a spell,” he said idly, beginning to wash the windows.

“No, I haven’t been out this way for a few months. Bramwell seems to be about the same.”

“Well, it ain’t!” was Howard’s terse, unexpected assertion. He rubbed briskly at a few insect specks then drew his squeegee across the window, wiping it dry.

“Oh?” Alan looked at him curiously. “Something new? Story in it for me?”

“Well, now, I don’t know. You might think so.” The gas station attendant shifted uneasily from one foot to another and the level of his voice dropped.

“We’ve had two extremely queer killings—any killing hereabouts would be queer, of course—within a mile of the village; not to mention the loss of considerable livestock in the same—ah, manner.”

“I heard about one of the deaths—fellow named Moss Kent?”

“Yup. That was the first un. We had another just three days ago.”

Webber shifted his gaze, looking up and down the street, as though he were about to reveal something that perhaps he shouldn’t. “Well, this time it was the Widow Fisher. She was found dead ’bout ten o’clock at night in her own rear doorway. She lived just down the road from here. She’d gone out back for fire wood, and when she didn’t return her children thought she’d dropped in at one of the neighbors. So it was a couple of hours before she was found.”

“Certainly strange,” Alan commented.

“I’ll say it’s strange! I don’t suppose the deaths themselves would seem startling to a city man like you, especially a newspaper feller, but they’ve surely created one big excitement in this county; most people around here are getting to be afraid for their lives when it comes to going out after dark.”

“As bad as that?”

Webber nodded. “There was no outcry—no noise of any sort.” He leaned closer, his head almost inside the automobile. “But she had been crushed and was found limp and cold, lying across her own back steps! No one here ’bouts is anxious to go out after dark—especially with that damned mist that seems to invade Bramwell every night—if it can be avoided!”

“I can understand why. But you said she was crushed?”

“Yes, sir, crushed she was; just like Moss Kent. That’s about all I know, and them that does know more don’t seem to be saying much about it to anyone.”

This was indeed news of a startling nature, and Alan could not help but wonder if the strange occurrences in the village were connected in some way with the uncanny activities occurring at nearby Shadow Lake. Leaving the station, he drove down the darkening street. Already, lights were beginning to glow from the forlorn huddle of houses. He turned at the general store at the crossroads onto a dusty gravel road which he knew led to Shadow Lake and picked up speed. Webber, he reflected, had seemed almost morbid with his unexplained inferences.

Dreary fields passed before his gaze, their harvests taken in, and dismal second growth accompanied the mile of gravel road. The scene was not more depressing than Alan’s thoughts as it shaded them with a subtle, insidious aura of gloom. Fletcher’s suggestion that some unknown dread was stalking the countryside was certainly confirmed by the words, although emotionally tainted, of Hal Webber. All sorts of possibilities occurred to him which before had not hitherto presented themselves. At first he had feared the letters might turn out to be the hoax of someone pretending to be Bayard Fletcher, or that Fletcher himself had somehow lost his reason. But now he strongly entertained the notion that the unnamed and unknown menace was not purely imaginary at all but perhaps very genuine. Not what Fletcher thought it to be, of course, but still something very real and noxious and deadly.

Could it be that his earlier suspicions were not so untenable after all?

And what was that ahead of him? He had been driving parallel to a meadow when something decidedly strange leaped into his vision, causing him to slow down for a closer look. Leaning motionless against the fence, obviously dead, was a cow looking as though it had been tossed there like a rag doll discarded by an irked child. But the proportions of its body seemed to be all wrong. It looked as though it had been deflated, like a basketball from which most of the air had leaked, much thinner and flatter than one would expect.

Alan shook his head, absently noting another huddled, unmoving mass much farther away in the meadow, and continued to Shadow Lake.

Presently he reached the narrow, winding lane which had been described by Fletcher, leading off to the left of the road. He carefully maneuvered through an aisle of rotting leaves carpeting the shallow wheel ruts; above, naked branches whipped the roof of his car.

His keen blue eyes searched the gathering dusk intently as the car wound through the clustering trees down the narrow gravel road to the lake and along the shore. Occasionally he passed cottages which were dark and unoccupied. Shadow Lake’s long narrow expanse, as seen through a break in the trees, stretched cold and somber and still. Alan could just make out a gray barrier beyond the sullen surface of the water which was the tree-shrouded heights of the opposite shore. The lake was certainly desolate and lonely in the autumn after the departure of the summer residents and the closing of the few isolated cottages. But its very solitude probably appealed to Fletcher as a welcome contrast to the unpleasant features of big city life. Fletcher, he thought, would probably have the lake to himself from now until the following summer.

The cottage on the knoll, which presently came into view, was long and low. It appeared to be a late Victorian dwelling, spacious and in reasonably good repair, but looking somewhat bleak and desolate behind a wild tangle of uncut grass and bushes.

Alan turned into a clearing hemmed in by patches of unkempt shrubbery and small trees, parked the car, and started to the cottage. Dusk continued to settle about the quiet countryside and the pine-fringed cleft in the knoll at his left was already shadowy and indistinct as was the narrow tree-screened path. Alan walked faster through the somberly rustling leaves, piled by the early autumn winds and seemingly undisturbed by human feet.

Fletcher opened the door at Alan’s knock. He seemed to be almost painfully glad to see him and led him to his rustic study, a long, booklined room tastefully paneled with dark oak. They sat before a small fire pleasantly burning in a huge fireplace and talked.

Fletcher was tall and lean and slightly stooped, but still handsome and distinguished in bearing, with snowy hair and precise eyeglasses. His voice, cordial and controlled, gave little hint of the strain under which he had been living.

“I’m delighted that you could come, Mr. Hasrad,” he assured his guest after drinks were mixed and they were comfortably seated. “This thing I wrote of in my letters is so utterly at variance with anything normal and understandable that I almost believe I’d have pulled out rather than remain here alone much longer.” His voice trembled momentarily and Alan had a flashing glimpse of the iron fortitude and determination of this man who would not run when retreat would so easily have solved his problem.

“I’ve heard talk in Bramwell that life has been threatened,” Alan observed carefully.

Fletcher nodded confirmation.

“Yes.” With slender, symmetrical hands he began to load a blackened briar. “This morning I found one of my neighbor’s cats on the front porch. It had been crushed to a shapeless, furry pulp, just like a goat I saw on the road the day before, and flung there. Terror has struck this area, Mr. Hasrad, a terror which most people couldn’t even begin to understand. In the past two weeks two people have been killed.”

“I’ve heard of their deaths,” Alan said, “although only sketchy and incomplete accounts of what had occurred.”

Fletcher, sprawled in his comfortable chair, drew lazily at his pipe. “I can probably fill in some of the details; I must, in order to convince you that the trouble here is very real. It’s a terrible business that is getting worse all the time. Those in charge are being very careful as to just what news they release. I suppose they think people will believe a hoax is being perpetrated upon them. But I can tell you some of the facts, as I was present at the autopsies—county Medical Examiner’s my cousin—and what I’m going to tell you just might be the strangest thing you’ve ever heard.”

Fletcher leaned forward and peered through his spectacles, his gaunt face a study in earnestness.

“Now here’s the really strange part. I saw the bodies myself, and there didn’t seem to be a scratch on them anywhere. But they were limp as rags; the bones, subjected to some terrific pressure, had been crushed and splintered and broken to pieces. I could hear crepitation in a dozen places before my cousin started to cut.

“I suppose explanations, remote and far-fetched, could account for such conditions, but something else was discovered which makes it even more unbelievable if that could be possible. It seems that in both cases the cells of most organs of the bodies had been somehow drained of nearly every trace of their enzymes, hormones, and antibodies; in fact, nearly all the amino acids which make up these complex substances are gone! This has resulted, in terms a layman might better understand, in most of the protein matter being missing from the interior tissues! Protein, you might know, makes up a large part of each body cell, so you can imagine the incredible scene we viewed after a few simple incisions!”

Alan gazed at the professor nonplussed, and sipped from his glass.

“Yes,” Fletcher nodded. “It’s unbelievable but true. With the exception of certain organs and the skin, which seems in both cases not to have been touched, it would appear as though the bodies had been robbed in some inexplicable manner of nearly every molecule of protein within them! As you can imagine, there was little left to examine but flimsy husks!”

Alan, remembering the cow he had earlier seen, was thoughtful for a time. Finally: “And what does your cousin the Medical Examiner have to say?”

Fletcher smiled weakly. “What can he say? The only possible explanation that he and his colleagues can offer is that the countryside is being terrorized by an animal that swallows its prey, ingests the bodily matter its diet requires, then spits out or otherwise eliminates the carcass!”

Alan’s lips tightened but he offered no comment.

“That, of course,” Fletcher continued, “is the most absurd rubbish that one could hypothesize! And yet… I have no better theory myself to offer. To compound one’s incredulity is the utterly impossible condition of the intact, unbroken skin.”

Alan was thinking swiftly. “But, Doctor Fletcher—really, there must be a reasonable explanation for all of this. One of the constrictor snakes could have crushed them,” he feebly offered, realizing as he spoke the unlikelihood of such a reptile being found anywhere near Bramwell.

Fletcher waved his hand. “Certainly,” he returned quickly, a hint of disparagement in his voice, “and so could a steamroller; but a snake would have swallowed its prey. And explain a conceivable way in which it could extract most of the protein from the bodies. No,” Fletcher shook his head with positive conviction, “obviously snakes don’t feed that way.” He fell into a troubled silence while he pondered his next words.

“But these killings were not the beginning,” he finally continued, relighting his briar. “It started about a month ago with the destruction of the insects in this area; and within four or five days it was nearly impossible to find an insect or a spider of any sort. Fed upon in the same manner, countless numbers of their broken remains lay scattered about. Within a week the small rodent population was in the process of being decimated; and it wasn’t long before dogs and cats and other small mammals that remained outdoors at night met with the same fate. Farmers then began to find livestock killed with all the same attributes, and these losses continue to increase. There’s no doubt about it, Mr. Hasrad, this thing is strong enough now to attack humans and even the larger animals and anything else unfortunate enough to be outside after dark. In all, I know of at least a dozen full grown cows and four or five sheep that have been found—and there are probably many more—crushed and drained of the sustenance this… this, whatever it is, craves!

“No,” he concluded, “we may as well face the fact that it’s not a natural happening susceptible of an ordinary explanation.” He rose and crossed to the bay window. “It won’t be long now,” he stated cryptically, “before you can see for yourself.”

After a sketchy meal cooked on the gas range, they retired to the living room. Fletcher fed the small blaze in the fireplace with pieces of dried driftwood, and shadows danced and jerked over the paneled walls, bringing into momentary clearness the pastoral paintings suspended about, then hiding them in a shadowy background that was vague and indistinct.

Alan could hear the faint sounds of the wind outside grow louder as the autumn darkness deepened. Across the sky it whipped gray storm clouds, sending them scudding before its wild breath. He studied Fletcher seated in his chair beneath the probing rays of a nearby floor lamp which highlighted his face in shocked relief as he stood before one of the windows facing the swamp.

Alan smiled discreetly. A wind such as this would make short work of any mists should they present themselves.

But he was wrong.

The night was dark and clear; the wind blew even stronger with a keening cry, whipping the shrubbery and bending the long grasses beneath its blasts. Alan chose a chair and sat quietly by the window, watching where Fletcher told him the vanguard of the mist would appear.

And then, beneath the few faint and newly visible stars, long writhing streamers of fog appeared from over the brow of the hill above the marsh. Faint, white and utterly loathsome in their inexplicable defiance of natural laws, they moved toward the house against the wind! Alan watched the grass bend nearly flat by the whistling blasts which should have torn the fog to shreds, and knew that he was indeed witnessing something that completely opposed the laws of nature.

Darkness was soon complete—the utter lonely dark of the countryside unrelieved by street lights or homely reflections from house lamps. But there was still light enough to discern indistinctly the writhing mists slowly approaching till they stretched forth damp, clammy arms and caressed the window panes in a loathsome embrace—a nebulous, vast grayness with misty, armlike tentacles that moved and writhed and poked curiously at each nook and corner of the building although the main body seemed immobile. The thought flashed into Alan’s mind that Fletcher’s likening had been inaccurate. Instead of an army with scouts, it seemed more like a huge, gray, smoky octopus that squatted before them, moving ghastly tentacles in threatening gestures.

Fletcher finally broke the spell of silence that had settled over the interior of the cottage. He spoke quietly.

“You have seen, Mr. Hasrad. What do you make of it?”

Alan tore his gaze from the window. His figure was tense, his face engraved with lines of worry and haunting doubt which was foreign to his eager, enthusiastic nature. “I don’t know what to think of it—yet,” he confessed. “In view of the apparent strength of the wind, this has to be the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. What would happen if I were to go out?”

Fletcher’s frail, pale face looked anxious. He stroked his white hair uneasily and his thin lips twisted grimly. “Don’t try it. Remember Kane and the widow and the livestock. It would make short work of a man. But, if past experience is any guide, we’re safely enclosed in here.” He moved to the windows and pulled down the shades, blotting from view the blindly crawling tentacles.

“When did this first begin?” Alan asked when he had resumed his chair.

“As best as I can determine, about five weeks ago,” Fletcher answered, his keen face haggard and drawn in the revealing rays of the light.

Alan fell into a troubled silence. Finally: “I hardly know what to tell you, Dr. Fletcher, although my first inclination, after seeing that deadly mist, is to urge you as strongly as I can to leave this area until something can be done.”

“That’s precisely my feeling. And I would probably have left a couple of weeks ago…” Suddenly his voice reflected a vehemence unusual to his normally quiet tones. “…But the fact is I have strong reason to believe that I myself might be responsible for what has been happening. My infernal, prying curiosity has, I suspect, loosed this terror on the countryside—this ominous dread of whose real nature no one yet has any conception. That’s why I’m so reluctant to leave. And I hesitate to take the legal authorities into my confidence, even if it would do any good. They’d confine me in an observation ward if I were to tell the truth, even the little I know, of this hideous death that stalks the vicinity at night. It’s too bizarre, too utterly incredible, for any normal person to accept as factual.

“But I’m going to tell you all about it. I have read accounts of strange encounters you have had with hellish entities, and you are one of the very few people I know who might be able to advise me about the problems here. I’ve had it on my mind for five weeks now, and it’ll do me good to tell it to someone I can trust. You see, I gave a hint or two to my cousin the Medical Examiner, and the way he looked at me made me quit right there and pass it off as a joke. And even then he suggested I take things easy and not let my imagination work overtime.”

Fletcher stared silently into the dancing flames for a while before continuing.

“Mr. Hasrad, I’m anxious to hear your views when I tell you of my conviction that a horror, possibly dormant and unsuspected since the dawn of recorded history, has emerged to prey upon humanity—a foul and terrible thing which must have lain in a sort of suspended animation for untold eons, only to be released by the poking curiosity of a fool like me. You’d think I was batty, wouldn’t you?”

Alan smiled faintly at the unexpected colloquialism used by the professor.

“But it’s the only answer. Part of it is deduction, of course—I don’t actually know anything about its past—but I can testify to the conditions under which I found it and, to my great sorrow, released it.”

He stared into the glowing coals left by the nearly consumed wood, his briar now dead in his hand, then tossed another small log onto the dwindling fire. A faint chill seemed to be in the dwelling.

“You ask what I think about all of this,” responded Alan, shifting his eyes from the glowing embers to the gaunt face of the professor, “and I must reply that your analysis is possibly correct.”

It had come to Alan that the fantastic idea which had occurred to him earlier might not be so impossible as he first had judged. Now, it seemed to him, it was a very real, very deadly possibility.

“I’ve seen enough to know that something utterly beyond the knowledge of man is on the loose. But… tell me more. Just what is this mist and just how did you come to be responsible for its presence?”

Fletcher stuffed tobacco into the minute orifice left by the carbon in the pipe’s bowl and began to pace the carpet restlessly.

“I don’t know what it is, but I’m sure it’s something utterly unnatural, a form of life created perhaps when the earth was in its infancy which should have perished long epochs before the stone age; certainly, it is nothing of which archaeology or paleontology could offer any hint!”

“Perhaps,” mused Alan, “it is not even of this earth, but rather some unspeakable cosmic malevolence from an another, unknown section of the universe.”

Dr. Fletcher stopped and nodded slowly. “That, too. After what I’ve seen I’m willing to believe nearly anything. I just don’t know. But I can tell you how I found it, discovered it under conditions which make it seem that it must have been sealed in its rocky prison long, long ago, to be held there until I unintentionally broke in and left the way open for its escape.

“It happened a little more than a month ago, on the afternoon of one of those drowsy Indian summer days we were enjoying here at the time. I’ve always maintained an interest in geology; made it a sort of spare-time hobby when I wasn’t tied down with strictly paleontological pursuits. Well… on this particular day, I’d knocked off work on my latest book—it was such lazy weather I thought I’d do myself more good outdoors—and gone for a ramble with my hammer.

“I’d circled about half the marsh behind us and was climbing the shrub-tangled bluff which overlooks the Miskatonic River on the other side, when I tripped on a root and rolled back halfway down the incline. That started things! I crashed through a growth of bushes into the mouth of a cave which they concealed. It’s typical of the formations one sometimes finds around here; they’re not uncommon, but because of its natural concealment I’d never known of this one.

“If only destiny had grabbed my ankles and prevented me from entering that cave! But no such intervention occurred and I pressed through the opening into a hidden cavern that perhaps had not been entered by man for many thousands of years—if ever! I took a large flashlight from my knapsack and played its rays over the ceiling and floor. Presently I advanced still further, making my way to the rear wall, tapping occasionally at projections of the rough rock as I examined it. It was only a very common variety of granite, but it was incredibly old—very, very ancient rock.

“Water, oozing from a spring in the rock above, trickled down the face of the blank wall at the back and dropped to the cavern’s floor with an endless drip-drip-drip. I’m mentioning this to explain what happened next. I took another step towards the wall and, in the uncertain footing of the slippery, pebble-covered floor, I slipped. My ankle turned; I teetered wildly for balance, twisted half around, and crashed against the rear wall. And my elbow went through that rock as if it had been a pane of window glass! The water, evidentally dripping for eons, must have eroded the stone to paper-thinness.

“The flashlight was fortunately undamaged. I got up with a throbbing ankle and elbow and played the light on the hole I had made in the wall; it was as big as my head. Extending the light through it, I saw beyond a cell-like chamber, perhaps ten feet square, from which dead, musty air seeped into the larger cavern.

“I stood back for a minute or two until the air in the smaller enclosure had improved. Then I inserted the light again and moved its rays over the uneven walls and rubble-covered floor. I was viewing a place which I now confidently believe had been sealed for perhaps countless thousands of years.

“And then I saw, almost at once, a huge flat stone, shaped—if you can credit this—in the perfect form of a conventional five-pointed star! The circular part I judged to be approximately three feet in diameter and lay on the floor near the center of the inner chamber. Mr. Hasrad, you can understand my astonishment and my determination to investigate more closely.

“I went outside and after a little search returned with a thick branch that made a fairly effective crowbar. With the leverage it provided I broke down the rotting wall ’till I could squeeze through the opening. Inside, I found myself in a naturally vaulted chamber; and just a few feet away was that star-shaped stone I mentioned. God, how I wish I had left it alone! Even now I don’t know what prompted me to move it. Just a sudden inspiration, I guess. Well, I had been studying some curious symbols engraved on its surface which I suspected might be ancient writing of some sort—though I could not even begin to identify it let alone decipher it—when it occurred to me to turn it over to inspect the other side. And that, of course, fool that I am, is just what I proceeded to do. I found the slab, however, too heavy for me to lift, but during the attempt managed to slide it over a little. Mr. Hasrad, that star-shaped stone was covering a pit!

“I moved the covering over until more than half the opening to that nightmarish shaft was exposed! I knelt at its edge and, as though I were looking down a well, peered at smooth walls that descended as far as the light would reach. It was nearly three feet in diameter, and from my vantage point I could see the walls run down and down in a manner suggesting the inside of a telescopic tube, which lost itself at a lower level, giving no hint as to just how deep it was.

“As I lay on the rock floor peering over the rim it occurred to me that the smooth polished roundness of the sides was at odd variance with the crudely hewn walls and ceiling of the chamber itself. My next observation was that the sides of this shaft were not made of rock at all but were composed of what might be a metallic substance which I was unable to identify.

“But speculation was purposeless. I selected a good-sized stone, tossed it over the brink, then waited second after second ’till a faint thudding noise was returned to me. Judging from the time elapsed by the fall, that hole was incredibly deep! I don’t believe the sound would have been audible at all had not the walls of the pit magnified it and carried it upwards to me. That shaft, I decided, must be hideously deep, and I backed away from it.

“At that point, my curiosity far from satiated, I resumed my inspection of those insane scribblings on the slab, unaware that the stone I had dropped had disturbed something that lived far below. Several minutes passed before I again felt the urge to examine the shaft, and as I did so my eyes focused upon a most astonishing sight.”

Alan shifted his position in the easy chair. “And just what was it you saw, Dr. Fletcher?” he asked.

“What I saw, far down in the depths, was movement where none should have been. Up into the glare of the light came a swirling whitish mass that filled the pit from side to side. It seemed as though amorphous pseudopodian filaments stretched forth cautiously, writhing insanely; incredible feelers that contracted and heaved in a curiously obscene manner as they rose higher and higher. They were still far below, understand, and I had plenty of time to replace the stone slab had the thought occurred to me; but instead I knelt there watching its rapid ascent with an awe and fascination which seemed to render me immobile.

“Can you understand, Mr. Hasrad, how fantastic and incredible a phenomenon it was to see in such a place? There was something indefinable and utterly unnatural about the sight that chilled me. Hitherto I had been actuated by pleased curiosity; now I began to feel an intense fear, and I actually trembled at the sight of what I thought to be rising smoke or fog. But I continued to wait, crouching at the edge and peering down at the depths where the flashlight rays seemed to tenderly caress and melt within the ascending horror.

“It kept on and on, stopping for a few seconds now and then, not behaving at all as would rising smoke. I don’t know how I had the brainless, unthinking audacity to crouch there and watch that thing inch its way up the passage in the glare of my flashlight. Suddenly I was trembling through and through, my heart was pounding as though it would smash through my chest, and my mouth was dry. Such was my response to the masses of matter composing that thing.

“Then, something seemed to click in my mind and I realized I must somehow halt its advance. I picked up assorted rubble littering the floor with my free hand and hurled it down on the pulsating mass. This had no effect, as the stones passed right through it, plunging down that seemingly bottomless shaft. The horror continued upward, and like a crazy old fool I waited, bent over the pit, my flashlight spraying into the depths as I watched that incredible monstrosity rise ever closer.”

Alan barely stirred, his attention riveted upon the professor whose voice began to quiver as he became more troubled and unsettled.

“And then it reached the rim of the shaft. Nonplussed, I remained frozen at the spot, watching small tendrils poke up tentatively into the chamber and begin to probe and undulate about. With them rose an unexpected odor of mustiness which soon became overpowering in that narrow space. My hand was but inches away from one of the reaching tentacles, and when at last it touched me I finally moved. No longer was I stricken by the paralyzing fear which had seized me. I remember screaming once; then, squeezing through the opening to the chamber I had made, I dashed through the outer cave and into the sunshine. I scrambled up the embankment and ran till I lost my breath and fell to the ground, panting as though I had just run the marathon! A few minutes passed before I finally realized I was out of immediate danger.”

Fletcher stopped abruptly and stared at Alan. His jaw muscles stood out with tension as he relived in memory the anxious moments he had described.

“And that, of course,” Alan prompted, “was not the last you saw of it?”

Fletcher pulled his gaze away from the flames and began to reload his briar once again. His mind seemed to suddenly be preoccupied. “Eh? Oh, yes. I learned of the mysterious depredations about the countryside and I knew—I realized with a terrible certainty just what was behind them.”

Alan gazed upon the gaunt, angular countenance of his new acquaintance and reflected as to just how much he should tell him of the awful suspicions that had been crowding into his own mind. Was Fletcher bordering on the brink of insanity or total collapse, as Alan at first had feared, or was there a hidden strength present that would sustain him when he learned of the awful suspicion Alan held?

Alan decided, relying on his intuitive judgment, that the fortitude of this man would probably endure the strain of the esoteric knowledge it was in his power to relate.

“Dr. Fletcher, you were right to invite me here, and I do believe I can assist you. Unless I am greatly mistaken, we are dealing with an intelligence far older than mankind—indeed, older than planet earth itself. Although it has never been an active force within the history of man, its existence is mentioned in various ancient volumes, the most notable of which is the Pnakotic Manuscript brought down to us from ancient Hyperborea by a secret cult; and the Necronomicon of the mad Arab, Abdul Alhazred, devotes brief passages to it. It is from this son of the desert whom I happen to be descended. I’ve also read of this entity in various translations, inexact as they might be, of the Eltdown Shards; also, mention of them is made in the De Vermis Mysteriis of Ludvig Prinn and the Sigsand Manuscripts which Robert W. Chambers consulted so frequently. The Cuites des Goules, written by the Comte d’Erlette, makes brief mention, and laconic notations in von Junzt’s Unaussprechlichen Kulten gives us even further hints. From some place in space this hellish entity was spawned and, after traveling from galaxy to galaxy, reached earth when our planet was but a seething, bubbling, coalescing mass.

“In the elder books it is written as to how this presence, which you know to be inimical to mankind, was imprisoned deep within the ebony bowels of the earth by several of the Elder Gods. Now, it seems, that which held this entity imprisoned has been removed, and a new horror is now free to terrorize the lives of mankind.”

“But its purpose, Mr. Hasrad?” Fletcher interjected with a nervous query. “If it is intelligent, as we both believe, surely it has a reason for its nightly presence.”

Alan smiled firmly at the noted paleontologist. “Of course it has a purpose. It is feeding.”

“Feeding?”

“Exactly. My guess is that it is still very weak, having remained dormant for countless millions of years, and needs nourishment—an attribute of all life forms. Since being released, unfortunately by yourself, it has gradually been building up its mass and strength by suitable repasts, keeping in hiding during the process, starting with the smallest of creatures and progressing each night to the larger. In some inexplicable way it must be gaining sustenance from the protein it has consumed during its nightly foraging. It seeks to grow, to expand, to regain the mountainous strength of near galactic proportions it once had. And then…

“And then?” Fletcher urged.

“And then—for mankind—it will surely be too late. Earth would be devastated, totally stripped of life, before it moved on to other planets in distant galaxies.”

Fletcher’s face was a study in stunned consternation as the magnitude of Alan’s revelation registered in his thoughts. “Is there nothing to be done?”

Alan wondered. If they acted now, while this intelligence was still in a state infinitely weaker than that which it once had known, perhaps it would not be too late. Then again, it might already be invulnerable to anything man might do to stop its advance. If only…

“We can try,” he returned. “We must try, and hope, and not consider the consequences if we should fail. By tomorrow morning it will hopefully have returned to its lair. If it still considers itself weak it will probably continue to seek sanctuary during the day until it is strong enough to openly find its sustenance. To its lair then we will go and somehow attempt to render it harmless.”

An amused smile played over the features of Dr. Fletcher. “Much in the manner one would destroy a vampire, eh, Mr. Hasrad? Strike while it is dormant!”

“Exactly. But this is no vampire, Dr. Fletcher, and the tools to be used will be different and far older than the traditional mallet and stake.”

“Tomorrow then,” agreed Dr. Fletcher, rising to his feet. “Let us retire for what remains of the night and pray to God or whatever guides the fortunes of mankind that tomorrow sees us reach a successful ending to this atrocity.”

“Amen,” affirmed Alan, rising to his feet and following his host to the guest room which had been readied for his use.

It was still dark outside, with just a hint of dawn emerging out of the east, when Alan awoke from a restless sleep and aroused his slumbering host. Together they looked out the window. The deadly mist had already begun its retreat before the coming light. No longer was the house enshrouded by its ghostly essence. Much still remained about the cottage, but no longer enough to pose the threat it had but a few hours before.

Alan and Fletcher stood on the wooden porch of the cottage, breathing deeply the crisp air and appraising the view offered to them of Shadow Lake visible through the stand of trees that pushed toward its edge. About the house, stray wisps of mist lingered but were departing slowly in a direction that led toward the nearby marsh.

“As I thought,” remarked Alan. “The mist is not dissipating in the air as one would expect; it actually maintains its nebulous form as it makes its retreat.”

“Precisely,” returned Fletcher. “I’ve contended all along that it’s not a material mist that dissolves into the air as unseen vapor.”

“Well, if we are to learn more, it’s obvious we must follow it, although there’s little doubt in my mind—nor yours, I’m sure—as to where it’s going.”

Leaving the porch, the two men followed the vaporous trails around the cottage, away from the lake, towards the decline that led to the swampy area. Long strides carried them through the tract of hardwood trees along the heights overlooking the dismal marsh. The air was crisp and clear, but mist could still be seen in faint, wispy trails.

Soon they stood upon the crest of the rise overlooking the marsh, where it seemed as though they were on the rim of a gigantic soup bowl. Below, the mist seemed to be more compact, appearing as might a soft, gray carpet moving away from them. It massed together in impregnable shrouds, flowing and converging toward a distant point. “It’s almost,” observed Fletcher, “as though someone pulled the plug in a gigantic circular bathtub and everything is going down the drain.”

“An apt simile,” agreed Alan.

Stray wisps constricted harmlessly about their ankles as they walked along the embankment circling the marsh, imprinting a temporary path on the dew-moist grasses that stretched across the side of the knoll.

“I don’t think I’ve noticed it before, Mr. Hasrad, but it seems to me the mist is thicker… more compact, perhaps… no longer the flimsy, silky wisps we’ve been following. Now it’s so thick we can’t see the ground beneath it.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Alan agreed, “and I think I can venture an explanation. It’s my guess that this entity had, at one time, a solid body that was probably miles in length and width and height—but it has not fed, has literally been starved for many, many millions of years and has, as a result, lost a considerable portion of its bulk. Rather than shrinking in size, its dimensions have remained the same, but the atoms composing it are so wide apart that it has this hazy, unsubstantial mist-like appearance.”

“Are you suggesting that it thickens as it feeds?”

“Exactly! And I further believe that if nothing is done to stop it, if it is left to continue unchecked, it will one day be a solid mass large enough to cover the entire countryside for miles around!”

Minutes passed and each step took them further away from the cottage on the knoll closer to the other side of the swamplands. They did not enter the marsh itself, as this was unnecessary, but traveled along its clearly defined edge, high above the patches of stagnant water and silently waiting ooze.

“It’s headed toward the cave, all right,” Fletcher exclaimed, beginning to breathe more heavily, following Alan as he led the way around a fallen log. “It’s not very far ahead now.”

A hundred feet further along found them at a point overlooking the cave to their right; off to their left they could see the sun advance over the distant horizon and delicately touch the leaden-colored Miskatonic River, winding serenely on its way in the far distance. Returning their gaze to the right, they could see the gray mist converge from all over upon a single point in the hillside. What they saw came not as a surprise, but the shock of realization that they had been correct held them spellbound for some moments.

“We were right, Alan… Mr. Hasrad,” affirmed Fletcher very softly. “It’s draining right into the cave.”

“And it seems,” Alan observed, “we haven’t arrived too soon. In a couple of minutes it will all be gone—all funnelled into that horrible cave, down the shaft you unwittingly opened, to its prison created eons past by the Elder Gods—if certain ancient writings speak the truth. Do you realize, Professor, that beneath us, down incredibly far, is probably a hollow chamber that must stretch for miles in each direction, large enough to contain all the mist that has been covering the countryside?”

Fletcher nodded. “I suppose so… but come,” he urged, “while there is still time to see what happens.”

Most of the mist had disappeared into the hillside, and only stray, tattered remnants remained pursuing the main ranks, as the two scrambled and slipped in haste down the incline. There was no need for Fletcher to point out the precise location of the hidden cavern for the mist was guide enough. As water spirals down a basin drain, so did the mist appear to swirl into the concealed opening of the hill. Moving the branches aside that concealed the entrance, several of them broken, they peered through the ancient maw.

With no hesitation they parted and passed through the remaining bushes into the cool, dank blackness of the cave; inside, they snapped on the large flashlights they carried. They stood near the entrance and surveyed the cavern which ran back perhaps thirty feet into the hillside, ending in a blank wall broken by a shadowy opening. Along the floor and through this aperture flowed the remaining tendrils of fragile, hazy mist. Alan guided his light about the low-vaulted roof that pressed downward and along the irregular rock walls and rubble-covered floor. All in all, it was a wildly unnatural aspect that met their gaze.

Slowly they advanced to the back wall where gaped the forced entrance made by Fletcher more than a month ago. Alan led the way, scrambling through the opening into the small chamber it once had concealed, closely followed by his companion. Their lights revealed the pit, half-covered by a large, flat star-shaped stone. Above them, the cavern formed a low arch, hardly high enough to permit them to stand erect. Little of the mist now remained, but what was left was making its way into the opening.

“No doubt about it now, Dr. Fletcher. This is where it retreats during the daylight hours after its nightly feed is ended.”

Fletcher slowly nodded. “Indeed, yes. The question now is how to keep it down there… permanently!”

“That hopefully will not be as difficult as you might imagine,” ventured Alan, kneeling at the edge of the shaft. He moved his light about the smooth tube-like opening into the earth and watched the thinly dispersed mist flow over the edge and make its descent. Abruptly, Alan had a thought and withdrew from his pocket a tiny medicine bottle all but empty. He shook from it a few capsules, which he placed into his pocket, then held the open bottle near the shaft.

“Just what,” Fletcher wanted to know, “are you doing?”

Alan gazed up at him with a strained grin. “Oh, just indulging an idle fancy. Silly, eh?”

“And what did you mean by suggesting there might be no problem in sealing this horror up again?”

“I meant that we can return things to the condition they were before you first entered this place.” As Alan spoke, he carefully examined the rock slab that had covered the opening of the shaft. It was obviously not a formation created by nature, and he was equally certain it had never been constructed by man. Radiating points gave it the unquestionable form of a star. It was only about four inches thick, relieving it of what might have been considerable weight, and its circular diameter of at least three feet was more than enough to effectively cover the hole. Alan’s light licked over the covering, which he dusted off, revealing curious lines etched onto the surface of what he took to be a seal.

“This,” said Alan, pointing to the curlicue formations, “is writing of a kind, and I think I can assure you it is prehuman—certainly it was never made by man.”

Fletcher nodded his agreement. “After what I’ve witnessed this past month, I certainly would not question your judgment.”

As he finished, the two noticed the last of the mist had flowed into the shaft.

“The Necronomicon tells of such cryptic signs as this, used by the Elder Gods millions of years ago to restrain and virtually immobilize the enormous power of some of the Old Ones to which this mist is reputed to be directly related.”

“Surely you’re not implying that this stone can imprison the terror down there, are you? Anything strong enough to crush a cow isn’t about to be stopped by a barrier such as this. Even I was able to move it!”

“I’m willing to wager it will. Not the stone itself, of course, but what has been written upon it. This script, whatever it might read, enforces an inexplicable cosmic spell, incredibly potent, that has been able to restrain the mist for what might have been many millions of years. You must realize, Dr. Fletcher, this is not a slab which someone had carved into the shape of a star and engraved with curious symbols. No, it is far, far more. Mystic incantations of towering proportions attended the creation of the runic inscriptions you see. I myself have seen similar star stones, most of them small enough to hold in my hand. This is by far the largest I’ve ever encountered, but its size is no doubt necessary to confine the actual bulk, as tenuous as it is at present, of the actual Old One. No, Doctor,” Alan concluded. “I think I can assure you that the nocturnal feeding of this nightmare is at an end.”

Dr. Fletcher was doubtful, but during the short duration of his acquaintance with Alan Hasrad, he had become so impressed with his sense of competence and sagacity that he had no reluctance in placing the matter solely in his hands.

“Well, then,” he reflected, “I bow to your knowledge in this field of arcane matters, but I would feel better if something further could be done.”

“Such as?”

“That I do not know. So… I am content simply to follow your advice. Let us cover the shaft now before it decides to come out again.”

“A moment more, Professor,” Alan said, continuing to kneel and examine the ancient writing. “All the mist seems to have disappeared in here, but you’d best check the cavern and outside area just to be certain. I’ll stay here and cover the opening if it should decide to come back up.”

Dr. Fletcher returned shortly and assured Alan that, to the best of his knowledge, all the mist had descended the shaft; he could detect none in the larger or smaller chamber nor outside. Satisfied, it took but a few moments, with their combined strength, to shove the star-shaped seal over the opening. They stood up, nodded firmly at the completion of their task, and gripped hands in silent recognition of this new friendship that had returned the deadly mist to captivity.

Outside, they spent some minutes sealing the small entrance with large boulders that lay scattered about with the conviction that no one must ever again discover this cavern. It was nearly eleven o’clock before they had finished and began their return to the cottage.

Alan stayed on for the remainder of the day and night, enjoying the company of Dr. Fletcher and the quiet serenity of the area. That first night the countryside, from all accounts, slumbered undisturbed, no longer troubled by the horror, and Alan left the following morning satisfied that the destiny of mankind was no longer threatened.

Two weeks later Alan Hasrad sat in his library examining the afternoon mail. His eyes seized upon one envelope in particular which bore the return address of Dr. Fletcher. Deftly, he slit it open and withdrew the contents, a single sheet of paper which relayed the happy message that all was well and serene at Shadow Lake and vicinity. The mist, Dr. Fletcher concluded, was surely laid to rest and the countryside had already returned to its usual tranquility.

Alan smiled and glanced over to a tiny bottle which adorned his desk. Inside, a gray cloud-like material seemed to squirm and struggle to free itself from its glass confinement. Continually in motion, constantly changing its formless shape, it charged and retreated from side to side and top to bottom of the imprisoning vial.

Alan continued to smile as he watched with total fascination this fragment from the stupendous whole of the primordial depravity he had captured within the cave before it could follow the larger mass into and down the shaft. Was it sentient, as was the parent body? Alan could not be certain, but he suspected a diminutive portion of the immeasurable intellect struggled to regain its freedom. And it amused him to know that his souvenir was none other than a part—an infinitesimal part—of the quasi-god itself.

PneephTaal waited.

Patiently.

It brooded over the irrational stratagem it had followed of returning to its prison while gaining bulk and strength, only to find itself once again effectively restrained. But one day, perhaps years or centuries or millenniums in the future, its fetters would once again be lifted and it would satisfy its consuming, cavernous appetite. That day, it knew, would surely come; and the same mistake would not be repeated.